Golden Boy
by jenamy
Summary: I suppose, as they say, it had all started with a kiss. Not just any kiss, no, it had to be the one kind that made me the worst kind of vulnerable a man could be.  AU. Sherlock/John  Mentions: John/Sarah  COMPLETE.


Coming from privilege left very little room for error. Failure was never tolerated, was never even an option; perfection was the only way. My parents hold expectations of me, their only child, their only son. However, there's always something, or rather some_one_ who comes along to change everything. I suppose, as they say, it had all started with a kiss. Not just any kiss, no, it had to be the one kind that made my knees weak, the closeted romantic buried deep within claw out in desperation, grasping for the surface, making me the worst kind of vulnerable a man could be. It was the annual spring ball my family put on for the small town we lived in—or rather they owned.

I remember it very fondly, I was newly twenty-two, the prime age for being a bachelor; my parents, however, expected me to find a nice girl to settle down with. Or at least start looking for one. I was never interested in girls, or boys for that matter, I was far too content with my own devices, my own insatiable curiosity of the world I lived in. Perhaps it was from the hundreds of times my grandmother would sit and read to me of the grand adventures of a Consulting Detective and his Doctor. I could never proclaim myself a high functioning sociopath, although I am rather decent at keeping my emotions at bay, or even seemingly non-existent, but that is neither here nor there and should be kept for another time.

Our ball was always a masquerade of some sort and I recall my mother being quite enthralled with a collection of 1920's gangster themed novellas that year. The photos taken that night would give the illusion that all in attendance were part of the Mafia; we all certainly looked the part or a dated version of them at least. I was in the far left parlor of our manor, all the young adults in town often gathered there when the adults required their allotted bragging moments. We all came from money here, whether it's new or old, only the wealthiest of the wealthy can afford such a place; the price tag my father has set on his small bit of land certainly would make any average man squeamish. The bell had rung, announcing old widow Hudson's arrival. She always arrived an hour late—fashionable she liked to call it.

Her arrival would also bring whatever grandchildren were permitted visitation for their spring holiday. I recall how dull the evening had turned out to be before Ms. Hudson's arrival. The young ladies had begun a few rounds of various board games, blatantly ignoring the corral of young gents across the room. She would always escort her charges to the parlor, giving a brief introduction before smiling and wishing us a good evening before retiring to the main hall and putting everyone to shame with tales of her rather eventful life. The door opened and she stood arm in arm with a young man I had never seen before, and he seemed to be her only charge. She told us his name was John Watson and left it at that, bidding us a good evening and closing the door behind her.

John glanced around the room, taking in the scene, and I am loathe to admit that I found myself curious about him the moment the doors had parted. Watson is not a family name I've ever heard her use, at least not before that night. The girls' chatter multiplied with fervor as he crossed the room to where Ms. Hudson's neighbor's sons were seated—Bradley, Hunter and Mycroft Turner. They greeted each other in a familiar manner; I realized then that they were the only people he knew. Mycroft linked arms with him and they turned about the room, informing him of all its occupants no doubt. He always seemed to know everything about all of us at any given moment.

They walked by me only a handful of times that night. I was perched in the poncy armchair angled so I could see the whole room at any glance. I always sat there, I never bothered to socialize, most nights like these the gents would gather round and talk around me, never quite to or with me, very rarely _at_ me. Most times I would have one of the many books littered about the manor, my own doing of course, lying open in my lap, however, that night I was drawn to John Watson. His unnaturally tidy hair, the way his suit—not tux—fitted his body just a touch poorly. The small flashes of his crisp and too white shirt beneath the jacket let anyone know he was out of his element. His eyes though are what ensnared me the most. Their color—brown—is not what intrigued me, it was the way that they were the only part of his body that did not show the emotions he was feeling, or the thoughts coursing through his mind.

I should fast forward to the end of the night, that's when things truly did get interesting. There were only about a dozen of us left, most of the young ladies had gone off to the west wing, finding a guest suite for the evening or had returned home with their parents. The only remaining ladies were Amelia Thompson and Jamie Anderson, both of whose fiancé's still remained in the room. Ms. Hudson had re-entered and called out for her dear Johnny. She had glanced at me and smiled, telling me she forgot to give thanks to my parents and asking if I could do so for her. John had been halfway across the room to her when she finished speaking and glanced at me, the second time he actually had looked at me all night. He changed direction, keeping his gaze locked with mine and walked directly towards me. He stepped around Hunter who stood leaning on the table beside me.

He offered me his hand—for what I assumed to be a handshake—taking mine into his he lifted it up, bringing it to his lips, pressing them softly against my knuckles. The silence that filled the room the second he righted his posture and turned to walk towards the door lingered long after he departed and the door closed with a soft click. To this day I can still recall the word young Jamie blurted out that night—such a foul title. A small three letter word that meant ruin to the lives of many in our social circle; it followed the two of us around those three weeks he was spending in Ms. Hudson's company. My parents were thrilled I was willingly spending time with another human being they purposefully ignored the rumors that stemmed from such honest truths. The kisses were passionate, sloppy and desperate, the touches were enough to deliver you to the brink of insanity, and for the first time in my life I had felt alive.

That dreadful saying, all good things must end, or some such notion—it is horrifically true. The pain that often lingers for an indefinite amount of time after one has their heart broken for that ever so life altering first time, it devoured me. It burned me from the darkest recesses of my self-proclaimed uncaring heart, shattering the barriers of my well constructed internal wall that kept others out. For a while I disgusted myself in permitting my mind to believe that it was just a summer fling, never minding the fact it was a season early for such a trivial notion. I found it rather easy to avoid social gatherings—given what happened and even prior to Jo—Watson's arrival—my lack of presence was not missed. I was only ever permitted in the first place due to the social nicety of being my father's son.

However, the truth willed out. I was so naïve in the delusions of first love—I did not know what else to call the tumultuous emotions fluttering about my heart, mind and body—that I failed to realize that I was not the only person to fall under John Watson's spell those three weeks. Hard to believe though, it felt as if every waking moment of mine was spent in his presence, beginning the very next morning after the party. Sarah Sawyer was the true object of his desires, possibly even his love. I happened upon them on my way to Ms. Hudson's. They were curled—or rather tangled—up together on a sprawled out blanket, hands appearing and disappearing beneath layers of clothes. My initial reaction was not that he was with someone else, not even that it was a _female_, it was the fact that that spot, that spot was ours. _We_ lingered there for hours on end, talking endlessly of anything and everything that would cross our minds. Or hours on end tasting and touching each other in ways that left me breathless and full of an aching desire that only dissipated when he was near.

I continued onward to Ms. Hudson's, having the accustomed cup of tea with her as we waited John's return. I realized that day that Sarah was why I always waited. He returned on time as usual, not a hair out of place, not a mark visible on his skin and his lips looking untouched and oh so delectable. That was the first time he and I ever did anything under Ms. Hudson's roof. She was going to the big city with the Frillman's for a play and wouldn't return till late the next morning. After she departed John crossed the room and removed the tea cup from my hand and placed it on the small table next to where I was sitting. He cupped my head within his hands and pressed his forehead to mine, the tip of his nose brushing my own as he stared hard and deep into my eyes, almost as if he was searching for something. I pressed up just enough to ghost my lips over his in a brief kiss—the first _I_ had ever initiated between us. It barely lasted a second but it was the confirmation he had been waiting for. He used his body to press me further into the couch I was on, shifting to straddle me, his warmth seeping into my very core as his mouth devoured me in the same manner I had witnessed not even an hours time ago.

Insult to injury, that's what that day was for me. I had given myself to him, completely and willingly. For the briefest of moments that day I had thought I had won, that the carnal fever that had run its course through us had finally settled and deemed me his rightful companion. We lay on his bed, tangled in each other's limbs, bodies connected in a way that left me aching for more than one reason the days following. His fingertips danced along the planes of my chest, patterns and beats only he knew, leaving trails of fire behind that settled into the lower pit of my heart. Lingering and causing my body to hunger for him in a way that's left me hardened in an array of ways. We slept together, simply sleeping wrapped up in each other that night—I recall it vividly—it was only two months ago. I remember waking the next morning, his duvet pulled over us offering little warmth compared to the radiating body heat between us. A smile found its way to my face as I watched his chest fall and rise with his shallow breaths of deep sleep.

The chime of a clock somewhere within the confines of the house brought him from sleep. I watched as his body slowly awakened, as he shifted, pressing and rubbing various parts of our bodies together before he opened his eyes. It was that moment, when our eyes met, that I finally saw behind their wall. The shame that lingered with every touch, every kiss, the betrayal to another not me—it was so brief that I knew if I wanted to I could convince myself I was only imagining it. He grinned and quickly covered me with his body, his heated weight pressing me into his mattress, his lips nipping at various patches of skin, following a jagged path till he finally captured my lips with his. Sucking the very soul from the depths of my core it seemed, my entire body was alight with a fire that burned from the ends of my toes to the darkest corners of my mind. The knock on the door tore us apart so quickly that I heard myself involuntarily whimper. It was merely one of the housekeepers letting him know that breakfast would be ready momentarily; I had to sneak home that morning and create some lie to tell my parents about my empty bed last night. They could believe I slept in the library; I am the only one who ventures to that part of the manor; I hadn't ever felt that embarrassed in my entire life.

Oh the memories that come to the forefront of ones mind as they watch someone once so significant to them move forward with life along side someone else. John is getting married today to young Sarah Sawyer; surprisingly she's still a blushing virgin bride. I often fantasized those first few weeks after finding out of their engagement the same morning I had to sneak home from his bed, I wondered what she would think if she knew that after he had ravished her on the fields where I saw them he had come to me, took _me_ to his bed. I envisioned myself telling her whilst they were together and that he would simply push her away and tell me we'd run away together. I know now that the brief moment I saw past the carefully constructed barriers behind his eyes, that I never mattered. I was told from his own lips I was merely the willing warm body he needed to keep him from spoiling his bride to be—nothing more. I sat in the third row on her side of the chapel and made sure to make eye contact with him. I gave him the same look I had the night I first met him, our gazes locked, deep and in awe.

Sarah made a beautiful bride. I glanced at her only once as she entered the isle and started making her way towards the arch and John. My eyes rested on him, the way he stood, the way his tux fit him superbly, accentuating him in just the right ways. As they joined hands and she stepped up to him his eyes darted briefly over her shoulder at me. My face was emotionless, my eyes expressing what I would never dare utter out loud. A time later those words were uttered, if their joining should not be completed. Those brown eyes searched out my own, they locked and his barriers lowered just a fraction—they screamed at me to object and I smiled and remained silent.

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><p><strong>This is also posted on my Mibba account; it was for a contest. I thought it would make a good SherlockJohn piece. I tweaked it, so if I missed any names...or any mishaps, feel free to tell me. Please! :) **

**It's also obviously AU. I hope you lot like it. :D I'm quite fond of both versions of this piece. One of the few short musings of my mind I'm proud of.**


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